Nothing Compares
I feel empty.
The war is long over now, and everyone has moved on, finished their pain-filly mourning or gotten their comeuppance.
Everyone, that is, except me.
Every day I am reminded of my loss. I wake up and I see him, I dress and I see him, I walk down the streets and I see him. I can never seem to escape his image, and it is a constant reminder that he is never going to be there, for a laugh or for a shoulder to cry on – he will never come back.
The younger ones have gotten married, mostly amongst themselves. Even I've found 'the one', settled down, and had kids. It seems almost too perfect; you meet them in Hogwarts and they're you soul mates, destined to be with you forever.
All, with the exception of him.
He would never feel the tender embrace of a loving wife, or the pure joy in a child's eyes when their father walks into view. He will never know the satisfaction of knowing that your little girl just punched Draco Malfoy's prized son after he took her rejection of him badly. Then the guilt of having to punish her after already praising her and telling her the glorious story of when Hermione punched Malfoy.
I would never know his children, or his wife. I would never attend his wedding and tease him mercilessly about how whipped he would become. I would never get to see if his children and mine would get along or not – either playing pranks with or against one another. I would never see his smile, or hear his laugh – at least, not from him.
His business, that he was so proud of, still bloomed gloriously, becoming more and more popular with every passing day. Hordes of young witches and wizards were turned into the future terrors of Hogwarts, all thanks to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Professor McGonagall was always sure to send a thank you letter after the first prank of the year – usually within the first week, depending on how brave the newest batch of first years were.
Never again would he mutter under his breath that he solemnly swears he is up to no good.
Never again would his eyes gleam at the discovery of a brand new way of escaping Filch.
Never again would he bolding meet Dumbledore's twinkling gaze as he was dragged off to yet another detention.
Never again would he beam in satisfaction as he proudly said 'mischief managed'.
George Weasley would never again be with his twin, just sitting and enjoying being with the brother they'd had, even before birth.
George Weasley would never be able to lean over, fondly calling for Forge as he watched the confused faces of first years dart their gazes between the identical boys.
To George Weasley, there was no greater pain than looking up in the morning and see the face of his dead brother.
To George Weasley, everything baring a reflection was the Mirror of Erised.